The Test
by dharmamonkey
Summary: My take on what was going through Booth's mind the morning he took his FBI pistol requalification test at the end of Episode 5x07  "Dwarf in the Dirt" . Dedicated to my erstwhile coauthor, Lesera128.


**The Test**

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><p><strong><strong>Disclaimer<strong>**: ****_Hart Hanson owns _Bones_. But people like me who play in his sandbox give you all those delicious little moments that Hart and friends leave out. That's why you read fanfic. _

**A/N:**_ This wee drabble is dedicated to my friend and co-author, _**Lesera128, **_from whom I have learned so much and who has helped me do things with my writing I never thought possible. _

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><p>I'll be perfectly honest with you, okay? I was terrified.<p>

Yes, that's right—I was absolutely, positively, stomach-in-knots, bowels-gurgling, fingers-tingling, leg-twitchingly terrified.

And, yes, I know it sounds strange coming from a guy who has on a number of occasions jumped out of a perfectly airworthy C-130 cargo plane and been dropped behind enemy lines on a moonless night in the middle of a war with only a rifle, a rucksack and fifty rounds of ammunition and who has spent the better part of the last ten years chasing murderers, kidnappers, serial killers, drug lords and gangsters. But the fact remains that on that morning, I was absolutely scared shitless.

The stakes were so high, with basically my whole career riding on the outcome of that one test, I could barely think straight. If I screwed this up, I could kiss it all goodbye. Everything I'd worked for—gone, if I couldn't manage to pass my marksmanship requalification test.

So it was with all that buzzing through my mind that I stood there on the firing line, nervously sliding the toe of my wingtip shoe all the way up to the edge of the bright yellow tape that sliced across the slick, varnished concrete floor.

I took several deep breaths, breathing in through my mouth and exhaling slowly through my nose. _I can do this, _I told myself. _I can do this. _I let the measured pace of the in-breath and the out-breath be the focus of my thoughts for a few fleeting seconds, tying all of my mind's attention to the physical sensation of the air moving into my nostrils and my chest expanding to take in that breath, and then on the reverse, the slow contraction of my chest as I expelled that breath, the warm air surging through my nostrils and out to the atmosphere. _I can do this._

I glanced over at the range officer who stood there with his clipboard, safety glasses and his bulky black over-the-ear hearing protection muffs. I took another deep breath and looked over my shoulder at Bones, who stood several feet behind and to the side along the back wall of the range. She pursed her lips, smiled and nodded slowly, then lifted her chin as if to gesture towards the targets that dangled halfway down the lane. She didn't say anything—not that I could have heard her if she did, since I, too, was wearing hearing protection—but the way she looked at me, it was as if she had whispered in my ear. _You can do this, _her thin-lipped smile seemed to say.

_I can do this._

The range officer looked over at me again. I reached into the pocket of my suit jacket, retrieved a fifteen-round magazine which I had loaded with six rounds, slammed the magazine into the base of the handgrip until I heard it click into place and pulled back the slide on my Glock 23 service pistol to rack the first round into the chamber with a firm _clack._

_I can do this._

I loosened and retightened my hold on the pistol's polymer handgrip, swallowed and took one last calming breath and, glancing over again at the range officer, I signaled I was ready with a quick jerk of my chin. He pressed the start button of the timer and I slowly raised my pistol.

_I can do this._

I leveled my pistol at the target, bringing the front and rear sights into alignment just below the desired point in the center of the man-shaped target. I gave the trigger six firm, even pulls in quick succession, popped out the empty magazine, retrieved a second magazine from my jacket pocket, loaded, cocked, and sent another six rounds downrange at the second target. After the last round left the chamber, my pistol's slide locked open and I brought my arm down.

_Did I do it?_

Between my time in the Army and in the years since I joined the FBI, I can't even say how many tens or possibly hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition I have fired at practice ranges, but there's no doubt in my mind that I was more anxious in the two or three seconds after firing that last round than I've ever been—and that includes my final qualification test to qualify as an Army sniper and the last qualification test I took before graduating from Quantico. I peeled off my safety glasses and pulled the foam earplugs out of my ears as I looked over at the range officer expectantly.

He flipped the switch and brought the targets zipping back to where we stood on the firing line. There it was: the moment of truth.

_I did it._

Twelve rounds—six on each target, and every damn one of them fell within a tight, three-inch group in the middle of the target.

_I did it!_

"Excellent, Agent Booth," the range officer said with a vague smile and a ministerial nod of his head.

I turned around and looked at Bones, who had taken off her big black earmuffs and held them gingerly in her hand as she smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I returned her smile with one of my own, then looked back at the targets. _I did it. _For all the hours I'd spent in the range after my brain surgery, throwing thousands of rounds of lead downrange trying to get my mojo back and finding myself completely unable to hit the broad side of a damn barn to save my life, I bring Bones in there with me, and, what do you know? I'm back to my old self, able to put a hole through the middle of a dime on the run. _Wow, _I thought. _I did it. _I guess that old shrinky bastard Gordon Wyatt had been right when he told me, _"When it comes to a man and his gun, a woman is the natural cure." _

The question remained: was he right about that other thing?

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

_So, this just goes to show that the dharmamonkey actually can write a K-rated fic. "That's right, people: I'm a constant surprise." _

_So, did you like it? Don't leave me hanging. __Let me know what you think. Leave me a review._

_Go ahead, press that little review button and share your thoughts. Yes, that's the one. Right down there._

_Pretty please?_

[insert Boothy puppy-dog eyes here]

_Thanks!_


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